THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 

M.  E.  W.  S. 


POEMS 

BY 

M.  E.  W.  S. 

(MRS.   JOHN  SHERWOOD) 


COMPILED  AND  ARRANGED 
BY 

EVELYN    BAKER    HARVIER 


NEW  YORK 
GEO.  M.  ALLEN  COMPANY 

BROADWAY,  COR.  2IST  ST. 
1892 


COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
GEO.  M.  ALLEN  COMPANY 


THE  ALLEY-ALLEN   PRESS 
NEW  YORK 


PS 
2.S 
SSS2.KH 

\<3^?, 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION     ...............  9 

SKETCH  OF  MRS.  SHERWOOD'S  LIFE   ........  n 

THE  NEW  YEAR      ..............  19 

HORSE  AND  RIDER        .............  22 

To  ROBERT  ELSMERE  AND  His  WIFE      .......  26 

ADIEU,  MON  CCEUR  !     .............  31 

THE  LIGHTHOUSES  OF  THE  WORLD     ........  40 

UNLIKE,  YET  LIKE      .............  43 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  VISITORS    ...........  46 

CARCASSONNE      ...............  55 

ON    SEEING    BOOTH,    BARRETT  AND    BANGS  IN  "  JULIUS 

CAESAR  "         .     .     .     ,     ..........  59 

SONNET  TO  PRESCOTT        ............  60 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  A.  Dix      .     .     .  61 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD  A,  WASHBURN         .     .  64 

THE  PASSION  FLOWER      ............  67 

TWILIGHT  TALK      ..............  70 

THE  QUESTION  ...............  74 

ENVOI    ..................  77 


762977 


INTRODUCTION. 

A  SKETCH  of  Mrs.  John  Sherwood  seems  hardly 
necessary,  for  who  does  not  know  her  ?  If  not 
personally,  through  her  many  prose  articles  that 
have  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  our  leading 
journals  and  magazines  ;  but  in  the  hope  that 
this  little  book  may  reach  out  and  beyond  the 
personal  friends  of  this  gifted  writer,  as  the 
poems  deserve,  the  following  is  written. 

E.  B.  H. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

MARY  ELIZABETH  WILSON  was  born  at  Keene, 
New  Hampshire.  She  was  one  of  several  chil- 
dren and  was  the  daughter  of  General  James 
Wilson,  a  man  of  great  distinction  in  his  native 
State  of  New  Hampshire  and  of  the  nation  at 
the  time  of  Daniel  Webster  and  Henry  Clay, 
both  of  whom  were  his  friends.  He  was  of 
Irish  descent  and,  allied  to  a  good  education,  he 
possessed  the  wit,  the  eloquence  and  the  ele- 
gance of  manner  which  belong  to  that  race. 
Mrs.  Sherwood's  mother  was  Mary  Richardson, 
a  great  beauty,  possessed  of  the  sad  Madonna- 
like  style  of  face,  made  more  so  by  the  death  of 
several  of  her  children.  Her  portrait  is  one  of 
Mrs.  Sherwood's  most  cherished  possessions. 
These  domestic  afflictions  overshadowed  the 
young  life  of  Mary  Elizabeth,  or  Lizzie  Wilson, 
as  Mrs.  Sherwood  was  known  in  her  girlhood, 
and  she  found  relief  in  the  use  of  her  pen.  At 
this  time  she  frequently  met  many  of  the  great 
men  of  the  day,  who  came  to  visit  her  father ; 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

being  naturally  of  an  observing  nature  and 
possessing  a  retentive  memory,  these  associations 
of  her  girlhood  left  their  impress  on  her  future 
life  and  did  much  towards  forming  her  mind 
and  character. 

Later,  General  Wilson  was  elected  to  Congress 
and  the  family  removed  to  Washington.  Soon 
after  this  event  Mrs.  Wilson  died,  leaving  Miss 
Lizzie  Wilson  not  only  to  guide  and  care  for  her 
younger  brothers  and  sisters,  but  she  was  at  the 
head  of  her  father's  household  and  entertained 
the  many  distinguished  people  who  came  to 
visit  General  Wilson.  She  was  a  great  beauty 
and  became  one  of  the  leading  members  of  the 
gay  but  dignified  life  which  was  then  the  charm 
of  Washington  society.  Allied  to  her  beauty  of 
face,  her  many  attributes  of  an  intellectual 
character  made  her  the  desired  companion  of 
such  men  as  Bancroft,  Prescott,  Washington 
Irving,  Longfellow,  and  many  others,  with 
whom  she  held  for  years  a  correspondence. 

It  was  during  the  height  of  her  social  tri- 
umphs that  Mr.  John  Sherwood,  a  young  law- 
is 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

yer,  met  Miss  Lizzie  Wilson  ;  they  were  married 
not  long  after,  removing  to  New  York,  where 
Mrs.  Sherwood  has  always  been  a  power  both  in 
fashionable  and  literary  life.  Indeed,  to  her 
must  be  accredited  much  of  the  popularity 
which  literature  and  intellectual  pursuits  have 
reached  in  New  York  society. 

Mrs.  Sherwood  began  writing  for  publication 
at  seventeen  and  only  laid  down  her  pen  when 
the  care  and  joy  of  her  children  took  her  life 
into  a  different  channel.  It  was  but  natural 
that  at  a  later  period  she  should  resume  the  writ- 
ings in  which  she  experienced  so  much  pleasur- 
able work.  Hers  was  not  a  nature  to  be  idle, 
and  her  articles  have  found  place  in  all  the  lead- 
ing journals  and  periodicals  of  the  day,  making 
her  name  known  from  Maine  to  California. 
Her  poems  have  been  signed  M.  E.  W.  S.,  many 
of  them  becoming  famous  before  their  authorship 
was  known. 

Mrs.  Sherwood  a  few  years  ago  began  giving 
literary  afternoons  at  her  own  residence  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Mount  Vernon  Fund ;  they 

13 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

proved  so  remunerative  for  the  charity  that  she 
was  induced  to  continue  them.  The  most  fash- 
ionable people,  winter  after  winter,  gathered  in 
her  drawing-room  to  listen  to  her  accounts  of  the 
many  distinguished  people  she  had  known  both 
abroad  and  at  home.  They  had  included  such 
men  as  Lord  Houghton,  with  whom  she  corre- 
sponded for  sixteen  years,  the  Due  d'Aumale, 
Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  Sir  John  Millais,  Rob- 
ert Browning,  Gladstone,  and  many  others 
equally  well  known. 

In  all  Mrs.  Sherwood  writes  there  is  a  strong 
individuality,  both  in  her  wit,  of  which  she  has 
abundance,  and  her  pathos,  which,  allied  to  her 
personal  magnetism,  holds  the  listener  and 
made  these  drawing-room  readings  a  feature  of 
social  New  York  during  their  continuance. 

Three  portraits  of  Mrs.  Sherwood  are  in  her 
possession,  all  of  which  made  fame  for  their 
artists  ;  the  picture  accompanying  this  sketch  is 
from  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Sherwood  painted 
recently  by  Mr.  Stephen  Hill  Parker. 

Artists  have  been  pleased  to  paint  her  por- 

14 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

trait  not  only  because  Mrs.  Sherwood  is  a  hand- 
some and  striking  subject,  but  because  it  is  a 
gain  to  them  in  prestige. 

Mrs.  Sherwood  is  as  much  at  home  in  Paris 
salons  as  at  English  country  houses  or  New 
York  drawing-rooms  or  amid  the  gayeties  of 
Roman  carnivals.  She  has  traveled  with  her 
eyes  wide  open  and  brain  ever  on  the  alert,  and 
has  the  most  charming  and  at  the  same  time 
forceful  manner  of  making  others  feel  and  see 
what  she  has  experienced. 

Mrs.  Sherwood's  love  for  her  children  has 
been  an  absorbing  passion ;  her  eldest  son, 
named  for  her  distinguished  father,  James  Wil- 
son Sherwood,  was  taken  from  her  while  yet  a 
boy ;  later,  the  death  of  her  son,  John  Philip 
Sherwood,  when  he  had  just  reached  the  portals 
of  manhood,  cast  an  almost  irretrievable  sad- 
ness over  this  fond  mother  which  time  has  only 
partially  effaced.  To  the  outside  world  Mrs. 
Sherwood  is  the  brilliant,  witty,  distinguished 
literary  woman.  She  does  not  carry  her  heart 
upon  her  sleeve. 

15 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Two  sons  are  living ;  the  eldest,  Mr.  Samuel 
Sherwood,  the  well-known  artist,  and  Mr.  Arthur 
Murray  Sherwood,  a  young  business  man,  whose 
wife  is  the  distinguished  artist,  Rosina  Emmet. 

During  her  visit  to  Europe,  in  the  summer  of 
1889,  Mrs.  Sherwood  received  an  unusual  honor, 
particularly  so  for  an  American  woman.  She 
was  decorated  with  the  Purple  Ribbon,  the  insig- 
nia of  Officiers  de  V  Academic,  the  honor  conferred 
by  the  French  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  on 
persons  who  have  distinguished  themselves  in 
literary  or  artistic  pursuits. 

For  thirty  years  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sherwood  and 
their  family  occupied  the  same  residence  just 
off  Fifth  Avenue,  in  a  central  location.  There 
have  been  entertained  many  of  the  great  men 
and  women  of  our  day,  including  many  distin- 
guished foreigners  as  well  as  our  own  country- 
men. Mrs.  Sherwood  passes  her  summers  in 
traveling  over  Europe. 

In  addition  to  Mrs.  Sherwood's  many  articles 
for  the  daily  press  and  magazines  she  has  pub- 
lished one  or  two  novels,  the  more  recent  en- 

16 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

titled  "A  Transplanted  Rose."  Her  book  on 
etiquette,  "Manners  and  Social  Usages,"  is  con- 
sidered an  authority  and  bears  the  additional  in- 
terest of  being  written  in  a  bright,  piquant  style 
that  marks  the  strong  individuality  of  the  writer. 
Mrs.  Sherwood  also  wrote  a  two-act  comedietta, 
entitled  "A  Case  of  Conscience,"  which  was  pro- 
duced at  the  Union  League  Theatre  by  ama- 
teurs in  behalf  of  the  Woman's  Centennial 
Union  Fund,  Judge  Barrett  and  his  daughter  sus- 
taining the  two  leading  roles  of  "Mr.  Russell" 
and  "Miss  Julia  Fairlie."  The  play  (I  quote 
from  the  daily  papers)  "  proved  to  be  a  delight- 
ful mixture  of  fun,  wit  and  philosophy,  showing 
the  interesting  state  a  man  finds  himself  in 
when  in  love.  The  author  of  the  play  was  loudly 
called  for  at  the  close  of  the  representation." 

The  lines  to  her  son  Philip  were  sent  to  him 
while  he  was  in  Rome.  He  died  August  4,  1883, 
and  the  little  poem  was  found  among  his  most 
cherished  belongings. 

The  sonnet  to  Prescott  was  first  published  in 
Ticknor's  "Life  of  Prescott." 

17 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

One  cannot  help  feeling  regret  after  reading 
Mrs.  Sherwood's  poems  that  so  few  of  them 
have  been  preserved.  They  speak  for  them- 
selves, as  they  have  ever  done,  and,  to  those 
who  have  known  her,  of  the  woman  behind  the 
writer. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  put  them 
forth  in  book  form,  in  which  labor  of  love  I 
have  found  much  pleasure. 

EVELYN  BAKER  HARVIER. 


THE   NEW   YEAR. 

I  greet  thee,  brave  and  coming  year ! 

With  thy  unwritten  snowy  page, 
And  dash  away  the  unshed  tear 

Would  dim  thee  with  its  dull  presage. 

Hope  dances  from  her  dewy  bower 
Thy  early  footsteps  to  beguile  ; 

And  Love,  as  fresh  as  Eden's  flower, 
Shall  wave  thee  onward  with  a  smile. 

Why  carry  to  thy  record  fair 

The  cares,  the  sorrows,  buried  past? 

Let  them  float  backward  on  the  air, 
And  perish  like  the  ocean  blast. 
19 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Despair  our  speech  has  iron-bound, 
The  stoutest  heart  has  often  quailed ; 

We've  flouted  Fortune  as  she  frowned, 
But  was  it  Fate,  or  we,  who  failed? 

Oft  Destiny  holds  this  surprise, 

Fate,  smiling  slowly,  drops  her  mask  ; 

Our  pain  was  blessing  in  disguise, 
And  health  was  hidden  in  the  task. 

We  weave  but  blindly  at  the  loom, 
Nor  see  the  picture,  save  in  parts  ; 

Not  ours  to  mark  the  gleam  or  gloom, 
But  labor  on  with  patient  hearts. 

When  the  bright  angel  overhead 
The  soul-wrought  tapestry  unfurls, 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Perhaps  the  tears  we  slowly  shed 
May  gleam  amid  the  gold-like  pearls. 

The  sorrow  which  has  crushed  the  life 
A  lily  blooms,  on  azure  field  ; 

And  daily  care  and  toil  and  strife 

In  bud  and  flower  may  stand  revealed. 

One  thing  is  left  us  undisturbed — 
We  still  can  work  and  love  and  give, 

No  matter  how  the  life's  perturbed, 
If,  living,  we  learn  how  to  live. 

Then  come  thou  young  and  sturdy  year, 
Come  with  proud  port  and  step  elate  ! 

If  dawn  is  dark,  noon  may  be  clear : 
Come,  give  us  heart  for  any  fate ! 

21 


HORSE   AND    RIDER. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF    GUSTAVE    NADAUD. 

My  foot  I  have  put  in  the  stirrup — 
Go  quickly  my  fleetest  of  steeds, 

Thy  master's  best  will  and  intentions 
Are  weak  as  the  quivering  reeds  ! 

No  matter  what  highway  thou  takest, 
The  better,  the  farthest  that  leads. 

She  thought  that  she  held  me  in  bondage 
So  smiling — that  little  blonde  girl. 

Fly !  Fly  thee,  away  from  the  siren, 
As  back  my  defiance  I  hurl  ! 

Put  the  long,  weary  marches  between  us, 
Else  I  yield  to  her  fluttering  curl ! 
22 


HORSE  AND  RIDER. 

Every  day  I  have  ridden  so  gaily 
To  meet  but  her  laughter  and  scorn. 

Take  care  !    thou  art  finding  the  pathway 
That  leads  'neath  the  blossoming  thorn  ! 

Thou  knowest  it  well  —  but  avoid  it, 
Go  seek  me  a  desert  forlorn. 

Her  cheek  like  the  palest  wild  roses, 
Her  voice  like  the  wave  on  the  shore, 

Those  eyes  like  the  heaven  above  us  ! 
False  Gods !    Whom  in  vain  I  adore. 

Such  love-songs  my  fancies  are  singing, 
Go  quickly,  my  steed  I  implore  ! 

My  soul  is  resuming  its  courage. 

Brave  horse  !    Thou  hast  gallantly  sped. 
Anathemas  fly  from  me  freely, 
23 


HORSE  AND  RIDER. 

But  my  heart  is  as  heavy  as  lead. 
My  lips  which  I  laden  with  curses, 
But  whisper  "  I  love  her "  instead  ! 

Ah  !    Beauty,  capricious  and  cruel, 
Disdainful,  yet  keeping  from  me 

The  power  to  love  others  as  truly 
As  now  I  am  sighing  for  thee. 

If  but  we  had  hearts  without  feeling 
How  easy  a  lifetime  would  be. 

My  steed,  mend  thy  faltering  paces. 

Each  evening  she  watches  alone. 
Thou  must  run  from  these  dangerous  places 

Where  the  nightingale  utters  her  moan. 
A  tear  may  drop  down  on  thy  fetlock, 

Why  lingerest  thou  like  a  drone? 
24 


HORSE  AND  RIDER. 

Thou  seest  the  lane  'neath  the  branches 
Where  the  sunbeams  but  enter  and  die  ? 

Ha  !  There  is  the  turf  gemmed  with  daisies, 
And  the  road  we  attempted  to  fly ! 

Oh,  feeblest  of  horses  and  riders 
Who  cannot  get  lost  if  they  try  ! 

But  on  !   We  must  on  with  our  journey.       , 
Ah  no  !   Wait  a  moment  and  see, 

Perhaps  the  white  hand  at  the  window 
Is  waving  a  signal  to  me. 

We  must  make  our  adieus  my  brave  courser, 
To-morrow  our  journey  shall  be. 


25 


TO  ROBERT  ELSMERE  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

These  dogmas  serious,  fine  for  contemplation, 

Will  all  give  out ; 
They  killed  the  flowers  of  Calvin's  generation- 

What  followed  ?—  Doubt ! 

It  is  a  fact  which  needs  no  dull  negation 

That  Life  is  hard  ; 
That  problems  stir  the  soul's  deep  meditations, 

Sings  every  bard. 

The  pastor's  sermon  has  its  brave  pretences, 

But  makes  us  nod. 
The  flowers  we  gather  near  the  humblest  fences- 

These  are  from  God. 

26 


TO  ROBERT  ELSMERE  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

It  is  His  hand  that  makes  the  flower  so  beauteous; 

Her  rich  perfume 
Will  kiss  the  senses  of  the  daughter  duteous, 

And  cheer  her  gloom. 


What  can  we  make,  with  all  our  moralizing, 

So  sweet  as  she  ? 
No  stern  amount  of  grim  philosophizing 

Grows  one  green  tree. 


Let's  stop  a  moment — pat  the  baby's  dimples  — 

He  is  so  sweet ! 
Or  look  at  Rose's  pretty  gown,  and  wimples  — 

Her  dainty  feet. 

27 


TO  ROBERT  ELSMERE  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

To  take  of  music,  flowers,  luxurious  living, 

One  little  share, 
Is  but  to  gather  in  the  gracious  meaning 

Of  summer  air. 


It  is  not  best,  e'en  with  a  grave  intention, 

The  soul  to  squeeze  ; 
That  pilgrim  was  a  man  of  fine  invention 

Who  boiled  his  peas. 


Let's  stop  a  moment  on  the  road  to  virtue, 

And  pluck  the  daisies. 

We  need  not  fear  that  good  things  always  hurt 
you;  — 

Love,  gifts,  and  praises. 

a8 


TO  ROBERT  ELSMERE  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

In  all  humility  our  thoughts  should  clamber 
Above  this  world  and  time  ! 

Let  us  remember  one  renowned  death  chamber, 
And  one  great  scene  sublime. 


When  little  Edward,  King  and  Saint  together, 
Took  the  last  wine  and  bread, 

While  useless  lay  imperial  crown  and  sceptre, 
What  were  the  words  he  said  ? 


The  Bishop,  kneeling,  asked  for  his  "confession," 

In  noble  words  that  live, 

He  murmured  clearly,  through  cold  Death's  op- 
pression, 

"  Jesus  !  Forgive  !  " 
29 


TO  ROBERT  ELSMERE  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

And  when  we  stand  at  England's  proudest  altar, 

Or  bend  our  knees, 

Making  our  plea  in  humblest  prayers  that  falter, 
Say,  can  we  find  in  sermon,  creed  or  psalter 

Two  words  like  these  ? 


ADIEU,   MON   CCEUR  ! 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

SPRING. 

How  gracefully  the  young  Bertine 
With  Jacques,  her  lover,  dances  ! 
See  how  like  sunbeams  'neath  the  trees 
She  flies,  and  then  advances. 

And  yet  she  sings  in  a  minor  key, 
The  old  Proven$al  melody  — 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !     Adieu,  mon  cceur  ! 
As  if  some  sadness  came  to  her, 
With  love's  dear  smiles  and  glances. 

The  Sieur  de  Courcy  comes  that  way, 
And  'neath  the  walnut  lingers. 
31 


ADIEU,  MON  COEUR! 

He  marks  her  instep,  clean  and  high, 
Her  white  and  dainty  fingers. 

He  hears  her  sing  in  a  minor  key, 

The  old  Provencal  melody  — 

"  Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !     Adieu,  mon  cceur," 

And  thinks  as  he  looks  at  her, 
Of  the  lays  of  the  Minnesinger. 

But  hark !  the  call !     The  conscript  drawn, 

And  Jacques  the  number  chosen  ; 
No  wonder  that  Bertine  is  dumb, 
The  blood  in  her  bosom  frozen. 

Brave  Jacques  strikes  up  in  a  stronger  key, 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
"Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !     Adieu,  mon  cceur  !  " 
And  looking  fondly  back  at  her, 
He  said,  "  Dear  love,  be  true  to  me  ! " 
32 


ADIEU,  MON  C(EUR! 

SUMMER. 

The  King  said,  gaily,  "  Je  m'ennuie  "  ; 

Nor  heard  if  the  people  grumbled. 
What  cared  that  gallant  majesty 
If  some  plain  lives  were  humbled  ? 
The  next  age  sang  in  a  different  key, 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
"Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !    Adieu,  mon  coeur  ! " 
Of  Pompadour  and  the  Pare  aux  Cerfs  ; 
And  greeted  the  great  with  a  bitter  laugh, 
When  heads  in  the  basket  tumbled. 

For  when  the  sun  lay  on  the  vines, 

Bertine  the  grapes  was  tying. 
The  tendril  round  her  brow  entwines ; 

The  summer  days  were  flying. 
33 


ADIEU,  MON  CCEUR! 

Well  may  she  sing  in  a  minor  key, 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
"Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !     Adieu,  mon  coeur ! 
For  the  news  was  coming  back  to  her 
Of  the  fields  where  Jacques  lay  dying. 


What  then  was  history  but  a  page 

Of  romance,  love,  and  glory? 
Chimeras  of  the  golden  age, 
When  life  was  worth  the  story. 
Woman  still  sings  in  a  minor  key, 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
"Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !    Adieu,  mon  coeur  ! 
That  is  the  tale  time  tells  to  her, 
And  will  till  he  is  hoary. 

34 


ADIEU,  MON  CCEURl 

AUTUMN. 

The  Sieur  de  Courcy  came  to  woo, 

His  voice  was  low  and  tender ; 
He  drove  the  wolf  and  the  King  away  — 
"  Let  me  be  thy  Defender  ?  " 
And  when  she  sang  in  a  minor  key, 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cceur  !     Adieu,  mon  coeur  ! 
The  gentleman  knelt  down  to  her, 
And  kissed  her  fingers  slender. 


"  Who  is  my  rival  ? "  laughed  the  King, 
His  gallant,  gay  eyes  lighting, 

"  Now  I  will  do  a  graceful  thing 
To  show  I  bear  her  slighting. 

35 


ADIEU,  MON  CCEUR! 

We'll  change  that  mournful  monody  — 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
'  Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !    Adieu,  mon  coeur  ! ' 
And  life  shall  not  be  spoiled  for  her 
Because  my  love  is  blighting." 


So  went  he  forth  to  take  the  air, 

His  perfumed  locks  were  streaming. 
His  brow  was  gay  as  if  no  care 
Could  blight  that  face  so  beaming. 
He  sang  as  he  rode,  in  a  minor  key, 
The  old  Provencal  melody  — 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cceur !    Adieu,  mon  coeur ! 
But  took  the  road  which  led  to  her : 
The  courtiers  guessed  his  seeming. 
36 


ADIEU,  MON  CCEUR! 

"  I  came,"  said  he,  as  they  bent  the  knee, 

"All  doubts  and  cares  to  banish. 
Leave  chains  of  rank  and  cares  of  state  ; 
For  one  day  let  them  vanish. 
And  dear  Bertine,  sing  now  for  me, 
The  old  Provencal  melody  — 
'Tais-toi,  mon  cceur  !     Adieu,  mon  coeur  ! 
And  then  he  lightly  told  to  her 
A  drama  from  the  Spanish. 


"  Rise,  my  proud  subject !  "  said  the  King. 

"  Rise,  Marquise  St.  Aulaire  ! 
I  give  the  title  and  the  ring, 

To  this,  thy  consort  fair. 


37 


ADIEU,  MON  CCEUR  ! 

Now  all  my  courtiers  sound  the  key 
Of  the  old  Provengal  melody  — 
'  Tais-toi,  mon  coeur  !     Adieu,  mon  coeur  ! 
And  one  and  all  bow  down  to  her, 
The  new  court  Lady  there." 


All  gratefully  the  sad  Bertine 

'Neath  her  long  lashes  glances. 
How  much  the  tear  that  steals  between, 
The  eyes  dark  gleam  enhances. 
And  yet  she  sings  in  a  minor  key, 
The  old  Provengal  melody  — 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cceur  !    Adieu,  mon  cceur  ! 
The  King  gives  Courcy's  hand  to  her, 
Who,  lover-like,  advances. 

38 


ADIEU,  MON  CCEUR! 

WINTER. 

O'er  castle  walls,  with  banners  hung, 

The  crescent  moon  is  peeping, 
And  on  the  ground,  in  sadness  flung, 
A  mournful  man  is  weeping. 
On  a  white  cross  —  what  words  to  see  — 
He  reads  the  sad  old  monody  — 
"  Tais-toi,  mon  cceur  !     Adieu,  mon  cceur  ! ' 
He  breathes  his  last  farewell  to  her, 
For  there  Bertine  lies  sleeping. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

"  Could  a  Christian  community  exist  and  stand  erect  in 
the  family  of  civilized  nations  and  shroud  its  shores  in  utter 
darkness  ?  For  what  do  we  see  when  we  look  around  us  ? 
The  British  Islands  blazing  with  three  hundred  lights, 
France  with  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  ;  the  Baltic, 
the  Mediterranean,  the  Euxine,  all  illuminated,  and  even 
in  the  frozen  North,  Imperial  Russia  lighting  the  American 
mariner  on  his  pathway  through  the  White  Sea  out  to  the 
Polar  Basin.  The  whole  globe,  from  North  to  South,  from 
East  to  West,  is  encircled  with  these  living  monuments  of 
humanity  and  civilization." 

(Duty  of  the  American  Union  to  Improve  its  Navigable 
Waters.) 


Darkness  descends  and  gives  the  spirit  wings ; 
The  eye  emboldened  claims  imperial  right ; 
And,  lying  grandly  at  my  feet,  I  see 
The  world  at  night. 

Behold  the  vision  !     How  sublimely  fair ! 
For  myriad  lights  illuminate  the  sea, 
40 


THE  LIGHTHOUSES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Encircling  continent  and  ocean  vast 
In  one  humanity. 

Perchance  some  habitant  of  far-off  star, 
Born  to  the  heritage  of  loftier  powers, 
Although  we  cannot  see  his  glowing  world, 
Yet  looks  on  ours, 

May  see  these  patient  sentinels  of  night, 

May  read  their  language,  eloquent  and  grand, 
As,  shining  coldly  'neath  the  Arctic  light, 
They  warning  stand. 

Or,  beaming  through  the  still  and  fragrant  air, 
Where  coral  reefs  the  vexed  Bermoothes  guard, 
O'er  freight  of  human  life  may  see  the  Lamp 
Keep  watch  and  ward. 
41 


THE  LIGHTHOUSES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Or,  streaming  from  Leucadia's  haunted  cliff, 

Where  fiery  genius  sleeps  beneath  the  wave, 
Touching  with  light  the  waters  surging  o'er 
A  lonely  grave. 

Or,  blazing  bright  amid  Atlantic  storm, 

While  bending  masts  are  quivering  with  fear, 
The  guardian  Light  upheld  by  sea-girt  tower, 
Aloft  and  clear. 

Burn  on  with  inextinguishable  fire ! 

Companions  of  the  silent  stars  above! 
Resplendent  types  amid  a  world  of  strife 
Of  deathless  love. 


UNLIKE,   YET   LIKE. 

There  is  a  blue  which  paints  the  sea  at  morning, 

When     skies    are     bright     and     treacherous 
breezes  fair ; 

There  sea-gulls  sail  the  snowy  wavelet  scorning, 
And  cut  with  tireless  wing  the  fragrant  air ; 

A  darker  hue  in  solemn  distance  warning 
Where  gallant  lives  have  grappled  with  despair. 

How  like  the  eye  of  Woman,  sad  and  tender, 
Revealing,  hiding  all  her  heart  profound  ; 

Telling  of  storms  from  which  no  walls  defend 
her, 

Or  of  some  trust  the  tempest  has  not  found, 

Flashing  in  Love's  bright  morn  with  burning 
splendor 

Or  darkening  where  some  mighty  hope  went 
down. 

43 


UNLIKE,   YET  LIKE. 

There  is  a  blue  the  distant  mountain  folding 
When  autumn  sunsets  linger  on  the  height ; 

The  craggy  outline  all  to  beauty  moulding, 
As,  slowly  robing  for  the  coming  night, 

A  solemn  court  the  giant  monarch  holding, 
Above  the  world,  in  lone,  majestic  might. 

So  looks  the  eye  of  him  whose  patient  seeking 
Beholds  how  all  things  in  their  order  stand ; 
No  idle  vengeance  on  the  sinful  wreaking, 

He    strives   to    find   what   mighty   Love   has 
planned ; 

To  him  the  earth  in  myriad  voices  speaking, 
Tells  of  a  glorious  thought  in  structure  grand. 

But  looking  upward  from  the  waters  glancing, 
And  from  the  mountain,  solemn  and  at  rest, 

44 


UNLIKE,   YET  LIKE. 

Above  the  clouds  in  golden  radiance  dancing, 
Behold  a  blue,  the  beauteous  and  the  best ! 

A  sapphire  path  o'er  which  the  coursers  prancing 
Bear  Phoebus  onward  to  the  glowing  West. 

O  eyes  of  childhood !    With  thy  blue  supernal 
Fair  countless  worlds  are  in  thine  azure  deeps 

As   spring   hides   summer    'neath    her   vesture 
vernal, 

As  skies  hold   stars  and  suns  while  Nature 
sleeps ; 

What  promise  fair,  what  gleams  of  hope  eternal 
The  gazer  finds  and  choice  the  vision  keeps. 


45 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  VISITORS. 

A  sculptor  was  moulding  the  amber-brown  clay 
As  he  sat  in  his  innermost  room. 
A  cloud  like  a  wing  had  come  sailing  that  way, 
And  deepened  and  darkened  the  delicate  gloom 
Which  the  vine  leaves  and  orange  trees  made 

in  the  room, 

And  cast  its  soft  shadow  which  followed  the  ray 
O'er  three  lovely  angels  —  three  angels  in  clay — 
The  dream  of  the  sculptor,  the  work  of  his  hands, 
In  the  Roman  deposit,  those  world-renowned 

sands, 
And  the  soil  of  the  mountains,  the  sculptor's  best 

clay 
Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned 

way. 

46 


THE  SCULPTOR'S    VISITORS. 

And  he  mournfully  mused  as  the  spatula  wrought 

"  Alas  !   Is  my  labor  but  play  ? " 

In  saddest  sincerity  Angelo  sought 

To  put  his  great  soul  in  the  clay. 

Here  stand  my  three  angels,  my  dream  and  my 

thought  ; 
Unworthy  these  daughters  of  Dreamland  they 

seem, 

Unworthy  the   soil   of  our  Tiber's  rich  stream, 
Unworthy  the  richness  of  amber-brown  clay 
Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned 

way. 

And  he  thought  of  old   Angelo,  saddened  and 

poor, 
Who  watched  the  proud  world  turn  away  from 

his  door ; 

47 


THE  SCULPTOR'S    VISITORS. 

And  he  wondered  if  Gratitude  were  but  a  name — 
Or  if  there  was  life-blood  in  what  we  call  Fame  ; 
Then  he  said  to  himself  half  in  fear,  half  in 

shame : 
"  I  shall  call  these  three  — Angels,  Ambition,  and 

Love, 

And  Gratitude  —  she  the  most  stately  of  all  — 
For  she  is  the  Angel  who  surely  bears  sway 
At  the  great  gate  of  Heaven  which  opens  above 
When  we  shall  be  angels  and  cease  to  be  clay. 
Ambition  may  lead  us  to  climb  up  the  height, 
And  Love  may  enwrap  us  in  worldly  delight ; 
But  Gratitude  brings  us  to  kneel  and  to  pray, 
The  kind  deed  to  utter,  the  soft  word  to  say. 
I  would  I  could  mould  her  in  amber-brown  clay 
Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned 

way." 

48 


THE  SCULPTOR'S    VISITORS. 

A  sunbeam   came  stealing  the  orange  boughs 

through, 
And  filled  the  whole  room  with  a  joy  that  was 

new, 

And  it  fell  on  the  brow  the  most  stately  and  pure. 
He  looked  at  his  hands  that  were  stained  with 

the  clay, 
And  he  wished   that  two    hands    which    were 

whiter  than  they 
Would   come  down  and  straighten  that  line  of 

the  brow  ; 

A  nimbus  of  glory  encircled  it  now. 
And  the  mouth  which  had  been  what  a  bee  loves 

to  sip, 

Seemed  to  open  with  goddess-like  smile  on  the  lip; 
And  he  saw  that  two  hands  (which  were  whiter 

than  they 

49 


THE  SCULPTOR'S   VISITORS. 

That  had  built  up  the  statue)  were  touching  the 
clay 

Which  Tiber  brought  down  in  his  world- 
renowned  way. 

And  soft  steps  were  moving,  as  winds  whisper 

o'er, 

Then  he  heard  a  low  voice,  disregarded  before  — 
The  light  came    and    went,  there  was  rustling 

of  wings, 
Like  a  breath  of  the  twilight  when  nightingale 

sings, 
And  the  rich,  Roman   landscape  his   casement 

denned 

Before  his  stunned  senses  was  sharply  outlined. 
The  soft  voices  sang,  disregarded  before, 

50 


THE  SCULPTOR'S   VISITORS. 

And  they  said  :   "  Go  and  work  for  the  blind  and 

the  poor ; 

Go  visit  the  sick  in  their  infinite  need  — 
Care  not  for  the  world  with  its  gilding  and  greed; 
Care  not  for  Ambition,  it  lasts  but  a  day, 
And  hope  not  for  Love,  for  she   comes  not  to 

stay  ! 

But  while  you  are  giving,  we'll  work  at  the  clay 
Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned  way." 

He  left  for  a  season  all  dreams  of  his  art  — 
He  took  of  the  burdens  of  life  his  full  part ; 
He  sought  out  the  weary,  he  sped  on  his  way 
The  poor  fallen  brother  ;  the  woman  who  weeps 
He   raised   from   the    cauldron    which   poverty 

steeps. 

And  with  one  little  hand  of  a  lame  beggar  boy 

51 


THE  SCULPTOR'S   VISITORS. 

Held  fast  in  his  own,  he  entered  with  joy 
His  garret  again,  to  resume  his  loved  sway 
Over  graver  and  rule,  and  to  touch  the  dear  clay 
Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned 
way. 

What  sight  met  his  eyes  as  he  opened  the  door  ? 

A  sunlight  so  brilliant,  that  never  before 

E'en   in   sunlighted   Rome,   where   Apollo  still 

beams, 

Had  a  glory  so  golden  brought  life  to  his  dreams. 
His     statues    were    finished  —  the    angels    had 

wrought 
To  give  the  poor  sculptor  his  dream  and   his 

thought, 
And  he  knew  that  a  purpose  had  moulded  the 

clay 

52 


THE  SCULPTOR'S    VISITORS. 

Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned 
way. 

A  moment  of  silence  before  he  could  speak. 
These   angels  were  mighty,   the   sculptor    was 

weak  ; 
But  the  beggar  boy  questioned  :  "  She's  sweetest 

of  all  — 

What  call  you  that  lady,  so  calm  and  so  tall, 
So  like  the  Madonna,  who  stands  by  the  wall  ?  " 
"  That,  boy,  is  Sweet  Gratitude  ;  this  one  is  Love; 
They,  boy,  are  the  angels  who  surely  bear  sway 
At  the  great  gate  of  Heaven,  which  opens  above — 
When  we  shall  be  angels  and  cease  to  be  clay  ! 
The  other,  Ambition,  so  proud  and  so  wild  —  " 
"  I  like  not  her  face,"  said  the  questioning  child  ; 


53 


THE  SCULPTOR'S    VISITORS. 

"  But  when  you  first  taught  me  to  kneel  and  to 

pray 

Sweet  Gratitude  came  to  my  bedside  and  smiled, 
Stretched  her  arms  to  me,  then,  as  she  does  from 

the  clay  ! 
Which  Tiber  brings  down  in  his  world-renowned 

way." 


CARCASSONNE. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF    GUSTAVE    NADAUD. 

"  How  old  I  am  !     I'm  eighty  years  ! 

I've  worked  both  hard  and  long ; 
Yet  patient  as  my  life  has  been, 
One  dearest  sight  I  have  not  seen, — 

It  seems  almost  a  wrong. 
A  dream  I  had  when  life  was  new. 
Alas,  our  dreams  !     They  come  not  true 

I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne, 

That  lovely  city  —  Carcassonne  !" 

"One  sees  it  dimly  from  the  height, 

Beyond  the  mountains  blue. 
Fain  would  I  walk  five  weary  leagues, — 
I  do  not  mind  the  road's  fatigues, — 

55 


CARCASSONNE. 

Through  morn  and  evening's  dew. 
But  bitter  frost  would  fall  at  night, 
And  on  the  grapes,  —  that  yellow  blight ! 

I  could  not  go  to  Carcassonne  ; 

I  never  went  to  Carcassonne." 

"They  say  it  is  as  gay  all  times 

As  holidays  at  home ! 
The  Gentiles  ride  in  gay  attire 
And  in  the  sun  each  gilded  spire 

Shoots  up  like  those  of  Rome  ! 
The  Bishop  the  procession  leads, 
The  generals  curb  their  prancing  steeds - 

Alas  !  I  know  not  Carcassonne ! 

Alas !  I  saw  not  Carcassone." 

"  Our  vicar's  right !     He  preaches  loud 
And  bids  us  to  beware ; 
56 


CARCASSONNE. 

He  says,  'O,  guard  the  weakest  part 
And  most  the  traitor  in  the  heart 

Against  Ambition's  snare  ! ' 
Perhaps  in  autumn  I  can  find 
Two  sunny  days  with  gentle  wind ; 
I  then  could  go  to  Carcassonne, 
I  still  could  go  to  Carcassonne." 

"My  God,  my  Father!     Pardon  me 

If  this  my  wish  offends ! 
One  sees  some  hope  more  high  than  his 
In  age  as  in  his  infancy 

To  which  his  heart  ascends ! 
My  wife,  my  son  have  seen  Narbonne ; 
My  grandson  went  to  Perpignon  ; 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne." 

57 


CARCASSONNE. 

Thus  sighed  a  peasant  bent  with  age, 
Half  dreaming  in  his  chair. 

I  said,  "  My  friend,  come,  go  with  me  ; 

To-morrow,  then  thine  eyes  shall  see 
Those  streets  that  seem  so  fair." 

That  night  there  came  for  passing  soul 

The  church-bells  low  and  solemn  toll. 

He  never  saw  gay  Carcassonne, 

Who  has  not  known  a  Carcassonne? 


ON   SEEING   BOOTH,   BARRETT    AND 

BANGS  ACT  IN  "JULIUS  CAESAR" 

IN   1879. 

Rome,  mother  of  all  symbols,  one  great  hour 

with  thee 

Is  worth  a  decade  of  our  common  life  ! 
Strange  that  a  people  calling  themselves  free 
Have  but  preserved  thy  luxury  and  thy  strife  ! 
Not  ours  the  virtues  of  that  earlier  day, 
Not  ours  the  courage  to  be  right  and  slay — 
First  the  usurper,  then  the  outraged  wife ! 
Thy  purple  pageants  make  our  visions  tame. 
A  world  sufficed  thee  !  Nothing  else  were  worth 
Thy  blood,  thy  sons,  thy  cruelty,  thy  grasp, 
Thou  monstrous  mistress  of  our  little  Earth  ! 
That  we  forget  thee  is  our  modern  shame. 

Oft  from  my  spirit  this  ideal  fades — 
Then   comes  great  Shakspeare,  painting  it  in 

flame  — 

I  thank  thee,  noble  art,  for  these  heroic  shades  ! 
59 


PRESCOTT. 

The  great  Historian  composed  many  of  his  most  brilliant 
chapters  while  walking  beneath  a  wide-spreading  tree  on 
the  lawn  near  his  seaside  villa.  His  footsteps  had  worn  a 
circle  in  the  turf. 

No  more,  alas  !  the  soft  returning  spring 

Shall  greet  thee  walking  near  thy  favorite  tree, 
Marking  with  musing  tread  the  magic  ring 

Where  pageants  grand  and  monarchs  moved 

with  thee. 
Thou  new  Columbus,  bringing  from  old  Spain 

Her  ancient  wealth  to  this  awaiting  shore, 
Returning,  stamped  with  impress  of  thy  brain. 

Far  richer  treasures  than  her  galleons  bore. 
Two  worlds  shall  weep  for  thee,  the  old,  the  new, 

Now  that  the  marble  and  the  canvas  wait 
In  vain  to  cheer  the  homes  and  hearts  so  true 

Thy  immortality  made  desolate  ! 
While  angels  on  imperishable  scroll 
Record  the  wondrous  beauty  of  thy  soul. 

60 


LINES  WRITTEN   ON   THE   DEATH   OF 
JOHN   A.    DIX. 

STATESMAN,    HERO,    SCHOLAR,   GENTLEMAN. 

What  was  the  secret  of  this  ample  life, 
The  long  success  which  followed  eighty  years  ? 

Why  came  to  him  such  honor  and  renown  ? 
Well  may  the  nation  ask  it  'mid  her  tears. 

Was  it  great  genius?    That  but  rarely  wins 
Save  a  poor  laurel  wreath  beset  with  thorn ; 

Was  it  a  mastery  of  the  statesman's  art? 
What  has  that  brought  but  envy,  wrath  and 
scorn  ? 

Was  it  his  scholarship,  profound  and  deep, 
That    had    brought    peace    and    joy,  but  not 
renown  ? 

61 


ON  THE  DEA  TH  OF  JOHN  A.  DIX. 

Was  it  his  manner,  courteous  and  refined, 
Which  won  the  nation  while  it  charmed  the 
town? 

Was  it  his  courage  and  that  ringing  phrase 
Which  struck  the  Northern  heart  and  found 
it  true? 

Or  fervent  piety  or,  unknown,  unsung, 
Some  talent  rare,  some  combination  new? 

Men  thought  he  had  too  much,  as  one  by  one 

All  unsolicited  the  honors  came ; 
Perhaps  they  scoffed  as  still  the  changes  rung 

And  titles  gathered  'round  one  simple  name. 

But  he  with  greater  honor  filled  each  place, 
Returned  still  better  the  unasked-for  trust ; 
62 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  A.  DIX. 

Marched  with  a  soldier's  spirit  to  the  front, 
To-day  obeys  the  mandate  Dust  to  dust. 

Was  it  humility,  unselfish  life, 

A  love  of  Nature  and  of  innocent  joy 

That  kept  his  heart  at  such  a  healthful  beat, 
Left  him  the  pulse  and  laughter  of  a  boy? 

There  was  no  grudging-  envy  in  that  mind. 

He  liked  to  help,  to  utter  words  of  praise ; 
There  was  no  avarice  in  his  generous  hand, 

Stretched  not  to  injure,  but  to  help,  to  raise. 

Brave  as  his  sword !     A  true  Damascus  blade, 
Blazoned  in  fire, — the  brighter  for   the  fray ; 

'Tis  usage  tries  the  temper  of  the  steel, 
Life  proved  thy  temper,  hero  of  to-day. 
63 


EDWARD  A.   WASHBURN. 

DIED    FEBRUARY    3,    l88l. 

Go,  great  Crusader  !     Now  thy  lance  is  lowered, 
Leave  us  to  bear  the  burden  and  thy  loss ; 

Fold  thou  thine  arms  upon  thy  trusty  sword, 
Its  gleaming  hilt  a  cross. 

Thine  the  Crusader's  temperament,  to  fight 
The  Paynim,  Error,  where  his  tents  were  found ; 

Did  there  come  need  for  help  of  Christian  knight, 
Thy  white  cloak  swept  the  ground. 

Strong  were  the  notes  thy  clarion  voice  rang  out, 
Fierce  was  the  onslaught  from  thy  vigorous 

arm, 

And  idle  ease  and  comfortable  doubt 
Took  sensible  alarm. 
64 


EDWARD  A.   WASHBURN. 

Yet  in  that  eloquence  a  sad  refrain, 
A  passionate  wit,  a  delicate,  tender  thought  ; 

These  were  the  gems  that  sparkled  on  the  chain 
Thy  splendid  genius  wrought. 

Like  the  Crusader  turning  toward  the  East, 
Those  learned  eyes  (which  saw  what  others 
sought) 

A  pilgrim  often  at  the  sacred  feast 
Where  knelt  Sir  Launcelot. 

They  should  have  placed  thee  in  that  ancient 

church 
At  Cyprus,  where  the  Christian  knights  are 

lain ; 

Or  in  that  sunny  square  where  sparrows  perch 
On  bust  of  Charlemagne. 
65 


EDWARD  A.    WASHBURN. 

Filled  with  their  names,  our  later  sands  of  Time 
Mark  thee  as  worthy  to  have  grouped  with  them. 

No  nobler  hero  known  to  book  or  rhyme 
Marched  to  Jerusalem. 

For  thou  wert  of  that  company  the  men 
Born  to  be  leaders,  knowing  not  doubt  or  fear, 

Who,  when  the  Angel  called,  or  now  or  then 
Could  answer,  "  Here  ! " 

Great  dreams,  great  sorrows  were  thy  bread  and 
wine, 

God  o'er  hot  deserts  led  thy  suffering  feet ; 
The  sepulchre  is  won,  the  victory  thine, 

Go  thy  old  comrades  meet. 


66 


THE   PASSION   FLOWER. 

TO   C.    M'C. 

No  flower  has  painted  on  its  face 
A  legend  sweet  and  sad  as  thine ; 

Thy  starry  petals  interlace 

And  hold  above  a  screen  so  fine, 

Hiding  the  Cross  from  sun  and  shower, 

O  weird  and  mystic  Passion  flower ! 

In  tropic  lands  I  saw  thee  twine 
Thy  endless  branches  round  and  round. 

Thy  fruit,  and  leaf  and  flower  combine 
To  scatter  blessings  on  the  ground, — 

Like  that  dear  love  whose  grace  and  power 

Was  while  on  earth  our  Passion  flower. 
67 


THE  PASSION  FLO  WER. 

Now  in  our  colder  clime  we  trace 
The  emblems  of  His  Passion  there  ; 

Alas,  the  cruel  wounds  have  place, 

The  Crown  of  Thorns  weighs  down  His  hair  ; 

The  drops  of  blood  —  a  sullen  shower — 

The  seven  spears  —  O  Passion  flower  ! 

Yet  on  that  Cross  He  gently  gave 
To  mother,  sister,  kneeling  there, 

A  message  read  beyond  the  grave. 
He  gave  a  vital  force  to  prayer — 

He  dignified  our  love  and  loss 

And  twined  the  flower  around  the  Cross. 

So  must  we  in  this  darksome  hour, 

While  sorrow  rends  the  inmost  soul ; 
But  take  a  lesson  from  the  flower 

68 


THE  PASSION  FLO  WER, 

And  from  a  part  must  learn  the  whole ; 
"  It  is  their  gain  which  was  our  loss," 
We,  flower-like,  must  embrace  the  Cross. 

And  if  from  Nature's  bosom  springs 

A  pictured  lesson  like  to  this  ; 
Does  it  not  breathe  of  higher  things 

We  yet  may  learn  in  realms  of  bliss  ? 
When  earthly  ties  have  loosed  their  power 
We  may  grow  upward  like  the  flower. 

Bearing,  indeed,  the  scars  of  life, 
The  broken  heart,  the  stain  of  tears, 

The  bleeding  wounds  of  cruel  strife, 
The  burden  of  our  lonely  years. 

Still  may  there  grow  from  out  the  moss 

Our  Passion  flower  twined  round  the  Cross. 
69 


TWILIGHT   TALK. 

He  speaks : 

My  love,  I  weary  of  these  books  and  all  their 

lore. 

I'd  listen    to  thy  choice,  impassioned  words : 
Pour  out  thy  dreams  with  fancy  running  o'er ; 
With  voice  more  wildly  sweet  than  singing 
birds. 

Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own  ! 

She  speaks  : 
Dearest,  what  can  I  give  which  thou  hast  not? 

Thou  art  my  library  wherein  I  cull 

The  brightest  flowers  from  the  field  of  thought ; 

And,  after  thee,  all  written  books  are  dull. 

Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own  ! 

70 


TWILIGHT   TALK. 

He  speaks  : 
My  love,  thou  knowest  not  a  woman's  worth. 

Thine,  the  Alembic,  whence  the  metals  flow. 
Man,  sordid  man,  can  dig  them  from  the  earth ; 
But  in  thy  brighter  soul  they  fuse  and  grow. 
Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own  ! 

She  speaks  : 
Dearest,  have  I,  like  thee,  the  power  to  deftly 

draw 

The  ears  of  listening  senates  to  my  speech  ? 
Can  I  defend  the  Right  —  build  up  the  Law  ? 
A  nation  listens,  dear,  if  thou  but  teach. 
Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own  ! 

He  speaks : 

My  love,  dost  know  the  very  best  I  do, 

71 


TWILIGHT    TALK. 

The    world's    dull    business    or    my    deepest 

thought 

Has  thee  within  its  folds  ?    Thy  'presence  true 

Informed  my  life,  my  inspiration  wrought. 

Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own ! 

She  speaks : 
These  answers  from  the  full-voiced  Past, 

Sweet  Eloise  by  her  Abelard's  knee. 
Did  she  not  say,  "  My  learning  is  so  vast 
That    it   hath  taught  me  this  —  I    know   but 
thee." 

Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own  ! 

He  speaks  : 

My  love,  now  I  will  quote  my  pedant  fair. 
Without   his    Beatrice,    where    were    Dante's 
song,— 

72 


TWILIGHT   TALK. 

Was  Pericles  alone,  or  was  Aspasia  near? 
On  Laura's  name  doth  Petrach  float  along. 
Come,  talk  to  me,  my  own ! 

She  speaks  : 
Dearest,  I  love  thee,  'tis  my  only  word, 

'Tis  all  my  eloquence,  and  wit,  and  power. 
Better  to  die  than  live  with  that  unheard. 
O  !  take  it,  'tis  my  heritage,  my  dower. 
Come,  take  it  all,  my  own  ! 

He  speaks : 
My  love,  I  fold  thy  slender  hand  in  mine, 

And  know,  my  Beatrice,  and  my  Laura  thou- 
Aspasia's  wit  and  Helen's  beauty  thine, 
Keeping,  like  Eloise,  thy  loving  vow. 
Come,  to  this  heart,  my  own. 


73 


THE   QUESTION. 

AUGUST    4,    1883. 

Oh,  dear  pale  lips  !     Oh,  lovely,  silent  face  ! 

Has  death  been  here  and  stolen  thy  dear  life  ? 
Speak,  then,  and  break  the  silence  of  this  place  ! 
O  God,  some  sign,  some  signal  of  Thy  Grace  ! 
Give  me  some  comfort  writ  in  words  of  light, 
Did  Jesus  watch  with  thee  this  vigil  night  ? 

And  I  who  watched  and  loved  thee  did  not  stand 
By  thy  dear  side  when  the  dread  summons  came, 
Did  not  in  mine  fold  the  familiar  hand 
To  lead  thee  tenderly  to  spirit  land  ! 
But  let  the  angels  come  with  faces  bright, 
Did  Jesus  watch  with  thee  that  vigil  night  ? 

74 


THE  QUESTION. 

Pure  was  thy  life,  thy  quest  of  virtue  rare  ; 
A  Red-Cross  knight  self  consecrate  thy  shield 

(And  dear  to  thee  as  vital  breath)  was  prayer  ; 
Thy  spurs  were  won  in  silent  battle-field, 
Whose  dreary  sands  no  blooming  laurels  yield. 

But  none  the  less  thine  was  a  goodly  fight  — 

Did  Jesus  watch  with  thee  that  vigil  night  ? 

THE    ANSWER. 

Be  silent,  aching  heart,  and  find  again 
That  cross  of  Calvary  borne  aloft  for  thee, 
The  Jewish  soldiers  had  no  spears  for  me. 
What  is  thine  agony  to  Mary's  pain  ? 
The  wounds,  the  thorn,  the  insult  to  the  slain. 
I  lived  and  loved,  believed,  and  angels  bright 
Came   with  my  Lord,  and  watched  that  vigil 
night. 

75 


THE  QUESTION. 

Wine  steeped  with  gall  was  given  me  to  drink, 
For  I  was  mortal,  and  my  flesh  weak 

With  pain  and  anguish  lingering  on  the  brink. 
Earth  still  was  dear  and  Heaven  far  to  seek. 

My  hour  was  called,  my  sentry-ship  was  o'er, 

And  saints  and  martyrs  led  me  to  the  shore. 
Pale  Death  at  last !  Nor  filled  me  with  affright, 
For  Jesus  watched  with  me  that  vigil  night. 


ENVOI. 

TO  JOHN  PHILIP,  WITH  A  KISS. 
DECEMBER,     1882. 

My  best  loved  critic  !  Son  ;  and  friend  of  mine, 
Lend  thy  dear  eyes,  and  gentle  soul  to  me  ! 

Some  day  when  I  am  gone,  these  words  may  twine 
An  airy  unseen  bridge  from  me  to  thee. 

Perhaps  we  have  not  told  our  deepest  thought, 
Nor    always    breathed    the    love   our  hearts 

have  filled ; 

Perhaps  we  shall  know  better  what  we  sought, 
When   Death  shall   consecrate,   and   Life    be 
stilled. 


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Form  L9-100m-9.'52(A3105)444 


Sherwood 


231U    Poems. 
S552U7 


1892 


PS 
28114 


1892 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2814.S552  A17  1892 


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